Mother Knows Best
by chrystopher draco
Summary: A glimpse into the administrative mechanations of the Agency.


TITLE: Mother Knows Best

AUTHOR: Chrystopher Dragon Spring 2004

RATING: G.

SUMMARY: Dr. Smyth reviews the Agency caseload with one of the directors.

DISCLAIMER: "Scarecrow and Mrs. King" belong to Shoot the Moon and Warner Brothers. None of the characters are mine. I don't think I broke anything while I played with them, and I tried to put them back where I found them. This story is for entertainment only and not for profit. No infringement of rights is intended.

WARNING: Unbeta'd. Mild angst for Dr. Smyth, who probably deserves it.

NOTES: Thanks to everyone who has written SMK fiction and made some days of my life bearable, especially Meryl and Fling. This story is un-beta'd, so all mistakes and confusions are mine and cannot be blamed on any hapless passersby.

GENRE: Fluff. I don't think there is anything here that violates canon.

TIMELINE: Sometime in spring, 1987, after the wedding. Marriage is still (mostly) a secret.

FEEDBACK: Email to smkfanfic list. Email to me. No Flames, please: I have enough tension already on in my life. This is just for fun.

ARCHIVE: Listmom may archive this in the SMKfanfic archives. Others please ask.

**Mother Knows Best**

Chrystopher Dragon

It was Monday, 3pm. In a locked room in the far reaches of the Pyramid Project, a light on the immense switchboard lit up and the printer chattered. After scanning the readout, the duty officer noted in his incident log that Mother had just entered the building.

"Well?"

Austin Smyth actually cringed. The woman in front of him was his peer, not his superior, but he had never felt quite equal to her. Once again, Monday afternoon had rolled around. Once again, she sat, poised, not a hair out of place, across the small worktable from him, surveying the reports neatly laid out for review. Once again, the sinking sensation caused by her disapproval hit his gut, and evoked the nightmare vision of himself standing in his parents' kitchen, the broken cookie jar at his feet, his mother's figure ramrod straight in her kitchen door. He searched desparately around the room--a depressingly well-ordered space only slightly larger than a utility closet--for some escape. From time to time, he glanced out the window at the snow swirling down through the darkening midwinter afternoon and piling against the lower frame, longing to follow the flakes down and out of sight. His swinging gaze paused at the closed door, but duty called, and patriotism, and most of all, self-preservation, so he remained. He would take it out in nursery rhymes on someone else later.

The voice, with just the right inflection to spur an erring child to proper behavior, pulled him back from even that momentary escape.

"Don't you think you were a little rougher than you had to be that time?" The woman code-named Mother tapped the manilla folder with one well-manicured finger. The review of the case had taken longer than usual, and it was only now ready for her signature.

Smyth tried to placate her. "The evidence was there: a meeting with Rostov, his signature on the visitation sheet only hours before as the last person to see Dart alive. You know I can't take a chance, even with Scarecrow. He could bring the whole Agency down if he were really defecting. Besides, if the Agency had left them alone, Rostov would have known something was up; we would never have brought them in."

"True." She mused for a minute. "But you were premature; there wasn't enough evidence to justify maneouvering Melrose into issuing a D-1." She looked at him sternly, as though she had just broken up a fight between siblings. "You could have gotten them both killed."

"You should talk. You had Melrose convinced that -- ".

She cut across his protest. "And just what had you thought we would say to her sons if the D-1 had gotten out of hand and one of our agents had shot "... she paused, regained control of her voice, and continued neutrally " ...their mother...?" She paused again, looking out the window. "You know, we really need a code name for her." Her eyes focussed on the snow, as if conjuring a name out of their swirling would provide her with a handle on the objectivity necessary to do her job.

Smyth was grateful for the diversion. He did not interrupt her; from long experience, he knew that she wasn't only thinking about code names for one of his part-time civilian aids.

She pulled herself back from her thoughts. "Are you convinced yet that she'll make a good agent?"

He huffed. "Melrose swears by her instincts; Scarecrow won't move without her -- obviously. And as a housewife and mother, she provides a unique perspective..." She nodded slightly, acknowledging the inadvertent compliment. He continued. "Yes, there is potential there. But—?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly, then said delicately, "It isn't the life a parent would choose for a child. And as you pointed out, she is a mother, with dependent children."

"That's not the point. We are talking about whether she has the necessary qualifications to be an agent."

At his look, she said impatiently, "We need people willing to take risks; we have far too few qualified volunteers for this fight. A citizen's duty is to think of the country, not just her own family." Her eyes fell on the report again. and she pulled the last sheet of paper out of the folder and studied it. It was a photocopy of an official document embossed with the seal of the registrar of Marion County, Md.

"Where did you get this?"

"I had my suspicions of their relationship for some time. Melrose's reports are thorough...however much he might want to protect them, he's a good field supervisor. We had to check their movements just prior to the incident once she was shot in California, in case it had anything to do with one of their current cases. I've restricted the file report to eyes only for the Board and myself, waiting your review." He grimaced, looking down at the paper in her hands. "You know that Agency policy forbids family members from working together."

She waited, stretching out the silence until he looked up. "Yes, I'm aware of it. I helped write it. But I also know that to every rule there is an exception; it won't be the first time the Board has granted one. As long as this stays eyes only to the board, officially, we don't know about this", the paper rustled in her hands, "so officially, we don't have to deal with it. I've talked to Harry, and Blue Leader; they agree. Unless there is marked degredation in the agents' performance, or it becomes publicly known, we don't do anything."

Smyth asked tentatively, "And if it becomes public?"

She smiled a small smile. "Then we congratulate them and provide an exception on the grounds of past performance. I don't think it will be an issue. The only real question is whether either of them would commit treason. Lee Stetson now knows about how his parents died, and the his uncle brought him up to believe in duty and service. He would never betray his country."

"Even for Mrs. King?" He was sorry the instant the words were out of his mouth. The eyes that met him were an icy, merciless blue.

"No." She was again the objective, focussed professional analyzing the issue. "I have studied him. I don't think anything could make him actually commit treason. Even in that affair two years ago, he was anxious to recover Rostov himself, clear his own name so that he could continue doing his job. And she helped him. Her values are well intact; she wouldn't respect him if he did commit treason. I think he'd rather die than lose that respect, and knows that she'd rather die than watch him betray her by betraying their country."

Smyth realized, with a tingle of shock, that he'd actually followed her argument. He shook his head to clear it, and then strove to catch up as she continued, "They've got a good partnership now, so stop messing with it. I admit I did have my doubts at one time, but now," tapping the document in her hand, "I've none at all."

Smyth logged the decision on his ledger, and handed it to her to initial. He was relieved; he didn't want to have to explain to the President why the best team in the Agency was being split up on a technicality. When she'd handed it back, he said, "Let's get on with the rest of the agenda...I assume your schedule is as busy as ever?"

The two fair heads bent over the reports of agents in Europe, in Africa, in East Asia, and hammered out plans that would determine not only the affairs of nations, but who would be home on with their children on Christmas morning. Agency policies required review of certain assignments and case procedures by one of the Board; usually it was Blue Leader, but occasionally Harry did them, semi-retired though he was, and once a week, she did it.

Smyth was grateful for the consultation; at least he wasn't alone making difficult decisions that could send people he knew to their deaths. When he had taken over after Dirk left for an ignominious retirement in Phoenix, certain aspects of the agency had been in chaos, Harry had been partially compromised, and Blue Leader had been occupied with a fiasco in Santa Rilla. Mother had suggested -- no, ordered, Harry's investigation be turned over to Scarecrow. Smyth had been sceptical, but Mother had been adamant, and the whole weaselly affair had turned out better than anyone expected. Over the years, Smyth had developed a grudging respect for this woman; however she behaved elsewhere, in this room, she was focussed and precise, and she forced on him a humanity which he too often considered a luxury.

They finished their agenda, and he rose, took the lists of shared decisions, shook her hand, and walked out the door.

She watched Smyth leave for his mahogany-panelled suite on the administration level, and sighed. At least his other associates knew what he did, and he could display those presidential commendations he'd received proudly on his walls of his office, and tell his family from time to time appropriately curtailed versions of his exploits. She had her share of commendations, too, but they all were in this room, locked in secure cabinets away from prying eyes. Someday...someday her family, at least, would know. Harry would make sure of that.

She sought the one picture that hung on the wall. Four couples sat at two card tables, smiling brightly at the camera, a loving cup resting on the closer table. The Agency had been through so many changes since the eight friends had formed their bridge club, and met together to plot the safety of the western world between bids and tricks. Harry's wife had died while the idea was still only an idea, so he was the logical one to be front man and put their plan into operation. Then the children started coming, and there was no more time for cards...ony for children and the work. Emily and Blue Leader -- she could never think of him any other way -- had resolved to be friends and nothing more, and Emily had married Lord Farnsworth and moved to England, coordinating the cooperation of MI6. She herself been busy those years with a family, but when her husband died, she reluctantly agreed to take his place on the Board. Her fingers drifted from one face to another, Matt's, Walter's... So many good people lost, so that so many other good people would not know loss.

Smyth had been the best candidate available when Dirk resigned after Sandstorm. Harry had finally agreed to well-deserved semi-retirement. She had remained at her post. As a new appointee, Dr. Smyth was constantly struggling to find a balance; some days he couldn't face the death of another agent and took it out on the remaining ones. She helped absorb that responsibility. A few years ago, overwhelmed with the constant need for secrecy and the responsibility for life-and-death decisions, she'd concluded it was time quit and relax, but before she could act on the decision, the weather threatened rain, and everything changed.

She touched Walter's face on the picture once more, turned out the light, and closed the door, waiting until the cipher lock beeped to confirm that it had completed its lockdown sequence. No one else used the room; no one other than Smyth and a few engineers long retired even knew that it existed. She turned down the empty corridor, the only place in the Pyramid Project without security cameras. There would be no pictures to identify her to any possible moles. She placed her token in the gate lock and waited for it to open the door and let her out.

In the bowels of Internal Affairs, the duty officer entered a note in his incident log that Mother had left the building exactly 58 minutes after entering it.

The snow had stopped, already melting into slush. The alley wasn't nearly as pleasant as the Georgetown entrance, but she couldn't use that one, of course. She shrugged her shoulders, as if shedding a coat, patted her hair and the handbag, and assumed her public personna. She was coming from the hairdressers, and late. Her self-assured stride became merely hurried, and her focussed manner slid into distraction. She turned onto the street, and looked at her reflection in a shop window. She straighted her coat collar. Mustn't be mussed, coming from the hairdressers.

She shut off the part of her mind that knew that Lacey might die in Bulgaria getting the information on the new Warsaw pact defense agreement, that the distrust among the Bogata office staff was growing after the last drug bust, that the President lacked enough information to make a decision about the situation in Libya. She especially needed to get her mind off the fact that the DC office would be sending its best team to get that information. Her effectiveness lay in her ability to see the big picture, and the little one, simultaneously.

She stepped away from the window, and was just a talkative, slightly foolish grandmother who needed to get home in time to put a casserole in the oven. She needed to water her tulips, count the sheets, and spoil her grandsons a little while their mother worked late, again. She needed, really needed, the fantasy of a pulp romance novel.

She had immersed herself in her public character so much that she almost didn't notice the bus pulling up to the stop behind her and loading the waiting passengers. The bus driver switched gears, and the sound of the exhaust venting from the released brakes broke into her train of thought. With exactly the right amount of startled surprise, Dotty West turned and ran for her bus.


End file.
